The State of Our Union

It is dark in the house early now.  We are so tired, exhausted. I barely have enough energy to tell you things anymore, parts of my day, share pieces of memory. I don't want to talk. I want to sleep.

I take a bath, and I can hear you in the other room cooing at our son. I know he must be looking up at you, eyes squinted in delight. I smile to myself, count my blessings.

I want to detach though. I want to roll into myself, think my own thoughts. I don't know why, but I can't.  My thoughts are wrapped up in that wobbly bundle of ours. I'm always analyzing, how to make things better. I pick up a book. It's about babies. I chide myself for my lack of interest in fiction anymore. I used to find such solace there. But I can't bring myself to read my unread paperback.

I know you're tired too. Those long days when you leave the house before dawn to work, when you wake up in the night to trudge into your car and drive through the dark and the hills. When you return home through the dark and the hills, the headlights like an unbroken necklace of twinkle lights on the highway. And when you arrive to the yellow warmth of our home, you must see that look in my eye, the one that says, "I've had a long day, would you take him?"

But you're so kind and good, because you don't complain or sigh; you just peel off your coat deliberately and then you pick him up and oogle him. And so I breathe.

I love you for that.

We've gotten into more of a rhythm. Those itsy-bitsy newborn hours are over. The blur of days and nights in wake-sleep-wake-sleep-wake. The spurts of adrenaline that pushed us through those first weeks. The nights where I didn't sleep and just listened, begging the still white moon hanging in the window for the sound of my baby's breath. The nightmare thoughts of losing baby, pulling him into bed between us just to be closer to him. I felt like a bear protecting her cub.

I don't feel like that anymore. Dax feels strong and hearty. In the wee hours of the night when everything is hushed and tired, we hear him wake and squirm and fuss. You get out of bed and go to him, arms like oak pulling him from his bed to comfort him. I hear you pat his back as you bring him to me, lay his little body next to me. You turn his head towards me, showing him where the food is. It is your gift to him. Your guidance.

And then you might say you love me as you shuffle back to your side of the bed. You might lay your hand on my hip in the dark as our baby nurses. When he's sleeping and snoring and breathing soft and languid you take him back slowly. I love your gentleness. I love you.

It is this rhythm that moves us through the weeks. A true team. As we've never been before. And when I'm too tired you let me lean on you and I do the same for you. And so it goes...

I miss you though. I do. I miss the just you and me. I don't want it back. No. I get it: things have changed. Irrevocably. Un-change-back-able. We are new. Different. Beloved. Better even. Revolving around a new planet. Bigger than us. The sum of us.

But I'm just saying, sometimes in the night I want us to be just alone again. So I can curl my body into yours at will--without worry or ears perked, without body and mind pitched towards our baby. I want to breath you completely again. Focus with my whole heart.

These are juvenile thoughts. Useless, I know. But just know that I think of you always. The state of our union is stronger now, even though we seem to be circling in separate orbits, we revolve around our son. But baby, I love you with everything. You're my universe.